


Shiny and Chrome

by DSK1138



Series: Dratchet Party Sept 2020 [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mad Max Fusion, M/M, Mad Max: Fury Road AU, Post-Apocalypse, Slight Suicidal Ideation, drift has a martyr complex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DSK1138/pseuds/DSK1138
Summary: Deadlock is one of Megatron's most trusted Imperators, determined to earn his place in Valhalla where he will ride eternal, shiny and chrome.Then he meets Ratchet, and his world explodes.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Series: Dratchet Party Sept 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936510
Comments: 11
Kudos: 52





	Shiny and Chrome

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for day 3 of Dratchet Party September 2020. The prompt was "monochrome" and I immediately thought of "shiny and chrome" which led me to a Fury Road AU of sorts. Enjoy!

The wasteland stretched like barren charcoal, motionless save for the stray gust of wind that kicked up sand in its wake. The war party had not yet emerged, and only two figures stood against the horizon, just as still as the desert landscape around them.

Deadlock’s optics stretched wide, enlarged by the enhancement of the drugs. Next to him, his commander stood, patient as a cyber cat waiting for its prey. His optics remained on Deadlock and not the landscape around them, for he knew he would not see what Deadlock was looking for. Deadlock was the only one who possessed the Sight, and he was grateful to put it to use serving his Lord.

Then, finally, what he had been waiting for. A flash of color to the west, cutting through the gray landscape like one of Deadlock’s own blades, then gone just as fast. It was too quick to tell what color it was. Even if he could tell, he doubted if he would be able to put a name to it.

“West.” His voice was stoic, but betrayed the slightest hint of anticipation. “We will go west. Ultra Magnus’s forces are mobilizing in the east. They plan to ambush us. We will raid the smaller settlement first, then destroy the Wreckers.”

Megatron smiled, laying a servo on Deadlock’s shoulder. The younger mech basked in the glow of being recognized by his Lord, plating tingling at the touch.

“Well done, Deadlock. Your service will not go unrewarded. Your opportunity will come soon. Very soon, indeed. Then you shall prove your righteousness and walk eternal in the halls of Valhalla.”

“I will ride eternal, shiny and chrome,” Deadlock whispered.

“Indeed. Now go, gather your warriors. We ride in one joor. Today is a glorious day.”

-

The haze of the drugs had worn off by the time the war party departed. An electric energy whipped through Deadlock’s frame. It took all of his self restraint not to race ahead and catch up with Starscream, who led the air party in the sky just ahead of the grounders.

Secretly, Deadlock had never liked Starscream, but he chose not to let his animosity be known, lest he lose favor with their Lord. Deadlock had not always been one of Megatron’s most trusted. Once, long ago, he’d lived far away, among a group of mechs who called themselves the Circle of Light. He’d had a different name then, though he couldn’t recall what it was.

It was the Circle who taught him how to read auras. His world had been chaos then, a myriad of colors and light and senses. Then the raid happened, and Deadlock had been captured by Megatron’s party. He had just the faintest memory of how hopeless he had felt, alone among the pathetic lower ranks, scrounging for enough fuel to make it to the next day. Fuel was an addiction, he knew that now, but he’d been weak then. The colors had vanished, and his world was plunged into monochrome.

But Deadlock was destined for greater things. He’d been blessed with the Sight, and his gift eventually drew the attention of Lord Megatron. He rose through the ranks until he served as his lord’s trusted right hand, commander of the ground fleet. It was an honor and a privilege, and all but guaranteed him the most treasured place in Valhalla.

He no longer feared death. A warrior’s death was the only path to Valhalla, and Deadlock longed to walk those sacred halls. Sometimes he lay awake at night thinking about it. He secretly hoped that Valhalla would have colors like the ones he’d once known. It was a selfish wish, especially for one already blessed with the Sight, but the part of his old self that hadn’t yet died ached for the world of color.

“Sandstorm ahead!” cried one of the grounders, drawing the party’s attention to a faint cloud of dust on the horizon.

“It’s not a sandstorm, you idiot!” Starscream shrieked from his vantage point. “It’s Magnus!”

Deadlock’s engine choked.  _ What? This wasn’t supposed to happen!  _ He had  _ seen _ so clearly. He had  _ seen _ it, and he’d never been wrong. This was the way they were supposed to go.

“Shall we retreat, my lord?” That was Shockwave, always calculating, planning the next move.

“No.” Megatron’s voice was firm. “Deadlock’s visions have never been wrong. This is how Primus wills it. We will meet Magnus’s party head on and crush them. Our forces are superior, we have nothing to fear. Who among you wants to see Valhalla today?”

A fervent cheer rose up from the party, a cry that would no doubt be heard even by the other party, which was still a few miles out. Deadlock joined eagerly in the cry. Let Magnus’s party come. He was not afraid.

The two parties clashed like an ocean wave striking a rock, and the once placid desert was thrown into chaos as the air filled with the crash of screeching metal and the tang of freshly spilled energon. Megatron’s party was greater in numbers, but Magnus’s group had the superior firepower. One by one, the war rigs fell around Deadlock, but he pressed forward, determined to show his worth. The dead were lucky, for they had died historic, immortalized forever on the fury road.

He cut down frame after frame, pressing on through the grit and the blood. So caught up in the frenzy was everyone, that nobody noticed the approach of a third force until it was nearly upon them.

“Sandstorm!” cried one of the Autobot fliers, and this time, it really  _ was _ a sandstorm. Deadlock cursed. He wasn’t about to let this stop him. And just then, he noticed his golden opportunity.

Magnus turned his helm, attention stolen by the approaching storm, and there was Deadlock’s chance to strike. His optics locked with Megatron’s, who nodded sagely at him. Deadlock’s frame trembled in exhilaration as he slowly lifted a servo, one that still dripped with the energon of a mech whose throat he’d torn open, and smeared the energon across his faceplate.

“Witness me!” he howled, charging at the enemy commander. He gripped his blade tight as he approached, readying himself for the finishing blow, but just when he was a few paces from the unsuspecting Magnus, a searing pain ripped through Deadlock’s thigh and he collapsed, screaming. Smoke rose from the blaster wound, and he turned to see an enemy grounder, weapon still aimed at him. Magnus’s helm whipped back around, optics widening in realization.

“Retreat!” he cried, but the Wreckers seemed to have read his mind, and their shapes were already fading into the spinning sand.

Somewhere, Deadlock vaguely registered Starscream calling for a retreat as well, but his audials were ringing and his leg refused to work.

He scrambled in the sand, praying desperately that he would be noticed, and then, his prayer was answered! Megatron stood above him, gazing down with cold, emotionless optics.

“Mediocre,” he growled, and turned without another word.

Deadlock tried to scream, but any noise he made was drowned out by the howl of the storm. It descended on him without mercy, and the last sensation he remembered was the sting of the sand against his face as he was thrown into blackness.

-

When he awoke, the desert was motionless yet again. His vision was fuzzy from the sand that had gotten stuck in his optics, and more of it spilled down his frame as he rose from his makeshift desert grave.

_He’d failed. He’d failed to fill his purpose. Megatron had left_ _him, and now the gates of Valhalla were forever closed to him. He’d missed his chance._

Deadlock curled in on himself, howling with agony, but there was no one around to hear him.

He could go back. Maybe… Megatron would forgive him. Perhaps he would get a second chance.

But Megatron had left him. Megatron  _ left  _ him. Who was Deadlock kidding? He didn’t deserve Valhalla. His vision had been wrong. He wasn’t blessed, he was just a crazy colorblind mech alone in the middle of an endless wasteland.

Maybe he should just stay here until he offlined. Mechs who didn’t die a warrior’s death were said to go to Hel, a Pit deeper than the core of the very planet he stood on. Deadlock deserved that.

He’d done a lot of bad things. Killing was supposed to earn him glory, so why didn’t it feel glorious?

In the end, he decided to keep going. He was damned to Hel anyway, so he might as well die on his feet rather than sitting here hopelessly.

But which direction should he go? The desert was said to be endless, stretching for eternity on all sides. Would it really matter where he went? At best, he’d run out of energon and die, and at worst, he’d run into Magnus’s party again.

In the end, he decided to head west. It was the way he’d already been headed, so he figured he might as well complete his journey. Perhaps he could steal some energon at the settlement they had intended to raid.

He followed the setting sun, an orb of white light that dipped lower and lower into the horizon, until he couldn’t see it anymore. But still, he walked, treading carefully through the inky black landscape. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon again when he could walk no more. He collapsed into the sand, vents straining to cool his exhausted frame.

Just when he’d decided this was the end, a shadow fell over him, but Deadlock was too exhausted to care.

-

When Deadlock awoke for the second time, he saw nothing but black. Was this Hel? Surrounded by darkness for all eternity? But he wasn’t alone… a voice grumbled somewhere, low and gruff, speaking in hushed tones.

“Wh-where?” His words were laced with static, and Deadlock jumped slightly when a servo was placed on his shoulder.

“Easy, kid.” It was the gruff voice. “You’re safe here.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

Even monochrome was better than nothing at all. Perhaps this was his punishment for being ungrateful.

“Relax. Your optics were damaged, and it appears they have been for quite some time. I repaired them, but I want to reactivate them slowly, so as not to overwhelm you.”

Deadlock sighed in relief, settling back a little into the berth he was laying on.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Ratchet. I’m a doctor. I heal anyone who is either unlucky or stupid enough to find themselves stranded in the desert alone like you were. The wasteland is a dangerous place for any mech, no matter how sharp his swords.”

There was more than a hint of sarcasm in the medic’s words, and Deadlock would have rolled his optics if he could. Still, he owed Ratchet his life. A quick self-diagnostic scan indicated that his fuel levels had been restored, and all of his wounds from the battle repaired.

“Thank you for saving me. You didn’t have to. I’m as good as worthless now.”

“Cut the crap,” Ratchet barked, and his tone was much more serious than before. “No mech is worthless. You survived this long, and that takes guts. Anyone can die, but it takes  _ guts _ to live.”

Deadlock tilted his helm. He’d never heard such a sentiment before, at least not as long as he’d been with Megatron. Death was always seen as an honor, but the way Ratchet said it… it made him feel like a coward for wanting to die.

“I’m going to do a quick check to make sure that your other senses are fully calibrated, then we’ll see about your optics.”

Deadlock nodded, dazed. Who  _ was _ this mech? He seemed so… fearless. Deadlock had thought himself fearless once, but it was nothing compared to the way Ratchet spoke.

The medic walked him through each test that was performed, always asking permission from Deadlock before touching him. It was quite unnecessary, in Deadlock’s opinion, but whatever made the medic happy, he wouldn’t argue. He felt better than he had in a long time, a testament to the medic’s skill.

“Okay, I’m going to turn on your optics now. We’ll take it nice and slow, all right?”

Deadlock nodded, but even after the warning, he wasn’t prepared for the brightness that now flooded his world. His jaw dropped. It was  _ color. _ Everywhere he looked. The walls and floor of the room they were in was still in the same gray and white everything had been before, but along one wall were vials of fluids in a variety of colors he’d forgotten even existed. On the table next to him was a cube of energon, and that, too radiated color. It was everywhere, but one source impressed him most of all. Before him was a mech- Ratchet, he assumed- and Deadlock gasped audibly at the sight.

Ratchet’s plating was mostly white, but highlighted with bright accents of the most incredible and vivid color. Deadlock couldn’t remember the word for it, but it reminded him of fire, like the campfires the Circle of Light had shared their meals around. His optics roamed the medic’s frame, following the patterns, and that wasn’t all. Ratchet’s optics  _ sparkled _ , a light, gentle shade like the pools at the Crystal City.

Ratchet smiled at him, and the world felt  _ right _ .

“What do I call you?” The question cut through Deadlock’s stunned silence, and his engine choked as he grappled for an answer.

Deadlock was the name Megatron had given to him, but that part of his life was over. The senseless bloodshed, scrounging and fighting for the right to live another day, only so he could die. He was a new mech now, washed adrift in a different world entirely.

“Drift. My name is Drift.”

“Drift,” Ratchet repeated, smile broadening. “It’s nice to meet you.”

-

Ratchet ensured Drift was welcome among the small settlement, despite his former association with Megatron.

“We all have an old life we’re trying to run away from,” the medic had stated matter-of-factly. “This is as good a place as any to escape to. The past can’t find you here.”

His voice was haunted when he said that, but Drift never pressed. It wasn’t his story to know.

In return, no one pressed him for information on his own past. He was welcome, so long as he pitched in to help construct housing and gather supplies.

Even a few weeks in, he never ceased being amazed by the colors that filled his life. They flowed around him, not just the blue of the sky or the orange of the sand, but in small places, too. The tiny patch of green plant life he’d found, growing in spite of the desert’s harshness. The auras that rippled around everyone he met, growing more and more vivid with each passing day. Ratchet’s was the most beautiful of all. It was bright and fearless like the patterns that lined his plating, but laced with a certain kindness, just like his kind, gentle optics.

He was happy here, but still, deep down, Drift’s spark ached for something that had been missing.

“Have you ever heard of the Circle of Light?” he asked idly one day as he assisted Ratchet with some tasks in the medbay.

“Hm. Sounds familiar. There was a mech who passed through here a couple months back. Cyclonus was his name. Real religious type. Not very friendly, either. He talked about something like that.”

Drift’s audials pricked up.

“Do you know where he might have gone?”

“Hell if I know. He was convinced he was on some sort of divine quest. Headed north of here, if I recall. Damn fool’s crusade, if you ask me. The only thing he’s going to find out there is a swift and painful death.”

Drift said nothing, but his processor was already running.

-

He pulled the pack tighter against his back. He’d only packed the bare necessities. The mechs here needed the resources more than he did. Ratchet was probably right. It was a fool’s crusade to seek the Circle, but he had to try. He had to know what had become of them.

He took a deep vent, but before he could move, someone called his name.

“Drift! Hey, wait up kid!”

Ratchet approached him at a jog, his vents labored as if he’d been in a hurry. Across his shoulder, he had his own pack slung, and his field medic’s kit was strapped to his hip.

“I’m coming with you.”

“What? No! It’s too dangerous.”

Ratchet snorted.

“And you think you’ll be safe on your own? Please.”

Drift opened his mouth to protest, but the glare he earned told him it was pointless. Deep down, he was glad that Ratchet was coming with him, even if he’d never admit it. The desert would be a lot less lonely this way. And a lot more beautiful, if he got to look at that radiant aura.

He smiled, reaching out to take Ratchet’s hand, and together they ventured into the wasteland.

**Author's Note:**

> For clarity, Drift's optics were damaged when Megatron captured him, and Ratchet finally fixes them, but I think it is very significant to him that it was Ratchet who brought color back after all that time.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed!


End file.
